


Wicked Games

by Aelena23



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sheriarty - Freeform, jimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-09 02:47:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14707665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelena23/pseuds/Aelena23
Summary: No way will Sherlock let on this hook-up means anything to him. Everything's a game to Jim, right?





	Wicked Games

‘It's,’ he breathed, trailing off, grimacing almost imperceptibly. Impossible. No lying. Wrong: lots of lying, but Sherlock knew who who was the better liar. He could prove it. He would. Now.

‘It's head,’ he said shortly. Jim went still, not frozen, but tensed. Jim opened his eyes and Sherlock swore he saw Jim take the slightest breath before meeting his eyes. Black. Endless. Open. Still. Waiting. And then he was surprised.

‘Yeah? Particularly good, though. A little recovery time would be polite.’ A smile tugged at the corner of Jim’s mouth, belying his deadpan delivery.

Sherlock shrugged. ‘Take whatever time you need.’ He brushed off his knees and stood. Jim stayed very still. Why, Sherlock wondered. Do you think I'm some wild creature you're going to startle? Do you think I’ll believe this is anything other than what it is?

‘Someplace to be?’

‘Not particularly.’ Sherlock looked for his jacket and tugged it around himself, slapdash, wanting nothing more than to curl up in it and go into a fugue state reliving the past half hour.

Jim sat up slowly and slid his legs over the side of the bed. He leaned back on his hands and sighed. ‘It's so--rude to let you leave without returning the favour.’ He waited as Sherlock adjusted his scarf and failed to respond. ‘Sherlock?’

‘Hmm?’

‘That was exquisite.’ Sherlock let himself acknowledge this moment, the one man who could make him come undone, here, appreciating something Sherlock could give him that wasn't solely mental. No. Pretending. Pretending to appreciate. He memorized the cheap grass-textured wallpaper, and the man watching him from the bed, only visible from the corner of Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock memorized the lingering taste of Jim’s seed in his throat. Just this once, Sherlock reminded himself. I'm weak, but not stupid. It's all a game. And I'm better. Sherlock stuffed his hands into his pockets and smirked. 

‘Of course it was,’ he said. ‘I'm a junkie. Survival skill. Blow anyone, anywhere, and make it convincing. And exquisite.’ He flashed an extra-wry blast of insouciance at Jim, but those eyes, Jim was so good, Sherlock thought.

‘Of course,’ Jim echoed.

‘Good enough for a fix,’’ Sherlock continued. ‘I do love this game. But you seemed rather--distracted.’

‘Wasn’t that the goal?’

Sherlock tossed his head. ‘Bit disappointing to see you’re as susceptible as anyone else.’ He glanced at the window, at the dark night outside, and turned like a responsible victor toward the door. 

‘In future I’ll endeavour to live up to your standards, Sherlock,’ Jim said behind him, but Sherlock maintained his forward momentum, and the door clicking shut behind him cut off his favourite part of the way his name sounded in Jim’s mouth, the intimate finality of the ‘ck’.


End file.
